It's Just Me
by Izara Sprightly of Redmont
Summary: On the way to Hogwarts for his third year, Harry is accosted by a dementor and looses a soul. He must decide who he is or if he is, as well as who controls him.
1. Preface

**AN)  
**This is not my normal writing style, so please let me know what you think of it. Also, though I can't promise frequent updates, all of them will be at least 1000 words. And no, I won't kill Harry off.

Sure, I own HP. The fact I haven't left High School yet has no bearings on this fact. Whatever.

**PREFACE**

Harry Potter_  
__"Stay here. I will see what the trouble is." I started, spinning around to face the new professor. The man stood tall, with something in his eyes and posture that belied the shabby clothes. He had appeared tense even in his sleep, if oddly vulnerable. But now his eyes flickered warily around the compartment, his back held straight even as his shoulders hunched, as though he was trying to make himself as small a target as possible. He left the compartment- not stalking as such, but with a predatory grace that made me move back slightly. _

_It wasn't that I thought he would hurt me, but rather that my life so far had given me the ability to sense danger. Ten years as the neighborhood punch-bag and another two as Voldemorts' arch-enemy does that to you. I'd learnt to act on instinct, to decide between running and fighting in a millisecond. I had the bravery of a Gryffindor, but it was tempered by my Slytherin self-preservation skills._

_Now my instinct was telling me this man was dangerous, so I listened. It didn't help that our previous Defense instructors had been less than savory. But despite this warning, I didn't pay that much attention to him. My attention was elsewhere._

_A dark fog had wriggled its way under the door, and it carried with it a feel of such despair that I nearly broke down and cried. It dragged at my spirit, clogging the few windows that allowed light to shine through to my soul. I lay hopeless in darkness, head spinning. I hated being hopeless! I forced my back straight even as my legs collapsed.  
Then came the scream._

_The dank fog wrapped around me, suffocating, drowning me in a cold sea. It pulled me down into the darkness, until I was floating in nothingness. Dread suffused my entire being. I was so cold that it felt like I was burning, that odd extremity of temperature that makes polar opposites seem the same. I couldn't decide whether I was struggling in fire or ice. My limbs were lead._

_The scream was back again, and it felt like I should recognize the voice, but couldn't. It was a half-remembered memory, hanging tantalizingly just out of reach, like a carrot dangled before a donkey. I strained to get to it. Not knowing exactly what 'it' was, just that, somehow, 'it' was important._

_Then my world backed up and my breath caught as someone so like me he was obviously my father swam into view. I wanted to reach out, touch him, but the body I was in wasn't mine. Well, it was, but it wasn't. A few seconds later I realized it was naught but a memory._

_There was a knocking sound that caused my memory-self to blink. When I opened them again I noticed at once that something was different. My fathers' face was contorted in worry, which morphed into terror as a manic chortle tore through the house. It soon became apparent just which memory this was._

_I could do nothing but hang there and listen as my parents died before my disbelieving eyes and ears. I watched as first my father, then my mother, sacrificed themselves for me. As Dad told Mum to take me and go, then placed himself between us and Voldemort, giving his life for his family. I could do nothing but watch as the Dark Lord killed my mother even as she begged for my life. In an abstract kind of way I wondered why he didn't just kill her at once- but it didn't matter. She was dead. Her life given to save mine. Guilt invaded my being, worming its way into my very soul. It was my fault she died. She didn't have to. But she did. For me._

_All the while that horrible cloying presence stayed. Some sense of panic kicked my preservation instincts into action. The warning was so faint many wouldn't have noticed it. However, to me that was yet another cause for fear- why wasn't my brain working properly? It felt like my consciousness was separated from everything else. Including my instincts.  
That thought alone was enough to cause me to pry my lids open._

_I jerked back as the first thing I saw l was skeleton jaw just about to clamp on my mouth.  
This time the scream was my own._

Remus Lupin  
_Remus allowed his superior lupine instincts to take over as he left the compartment. He slowly glided along the corridor, directing his silvery Patronus. Amber eyes moved smoothly but swiftly, ensuring that nothing dangerous was in the immediate view. Usually he would have relied on his keener senses- those of sound and smell -to check, but Dementors were silent and their scent was only useful when determining around a hundred meter area that they could be in. Besides, he did not wish to breathe in any more of that horror than necessary. _

_Assured that none of the vile creatures remained on this area of the train, he turned to make his way back. This time he stopped by the various clusters of terrified children to hand out comfort and chocolate. Some accepted at once, but the greater portion watched him with wide, slightly fearful eyes. It was only natural, he supposed, that the Dementors' aura would have left then scared and insecure. Still, it hurt. He was used to people giving him such looks when they discovered he was a Were. There was the distrust. The fear. It made him want to run, tail between his legs. But he was an Omega, a loner, independent. _

_He slowly made worked back to his original compartment, keeping up the steady stream of reassurance. Finally arriving, he prepared to let out a relieved sigh. That quickly turned into a howl at the scene revealed as he slid the door open._

_A tall black figure was framed by what little light still came through the window. It was a single silhouette against the unearthly mists swirling about the enclosed space. It took all of a second for him to realize that the Dementor was not, in fact, alone. Crouched back in his seat, green orbs filled with terror, mouth open in a silent scream. Harry. His best friends' son. _

_The cloaked creature leaned forward, lowering his hood. The thing underneath could barely be called a head. It was some awful dark parody of a skull, a mass of solid shadows. Like any wolf, Remus had a good sense of when to run and when to fight. This was screaming at him to run._

_Then the jaw lowered. The monster leaned forward, over the boy, to caress his lips in a horrifying mockery of a lovers kiss.  
"Expecto Patronum!" Remus yelled, eyes wild. It was a harsh sound, tainted with anger and despair. A doe leapt out of the end of his wand- a doe after his first true friend, Lily. Never a wolf. A Patronus represented safety and joy, not madness and pain.  
The doe raced forward, quick and lithe as a cheetah hunting prey. The Dementor fled- too late._

_Harry fell back, eyes unseeing._

…_  
_**AN) **i told you I wouldn't kill him! This isn't death. It's a fate worse than death. *Evil laugh*. **  
**Next update after at least ten reviews. Please? Pretty please? Yeah, I know I'm shameless.


	2. Perspectives

THIS IS AN EDITED VERSION.  
Also, I realized that there was several complaints about these two subjects and thought I'd answer:  
**1000 word chapters  
**I know this may seem a small amount. When I said that I was giving you a bare minimum I am holding myself to. Hopefully most of my chapters will go way over this, but _none_ will go under. For instance, this chapter is 3,277 words. Not counting the authors note.  
**POV change  
**I apologize to those who _hate_ this. While it will decrease further into the story, at the beginning it _will _change a _lot._ I am doing this because I want to give you perspective, and develop the characters more. My favorite stories are the ones where the characters cease to be characters and become people; I am trying to hold myself to that standard. Hopefully this chapter will give you more of an idea what I mean.

_Prolouge__  
_**Perspectives**

_Poppy Pomfrey__  
_Sometimes I wish I wasn't a healer. There are some things you never want to see. Death, pain, humiliation. All my life I wanted to heal, to help. I never realized that there are some cases where you _can't_ help.

I became a healer in the middle of war. Everyone was fighting. Families and friends were torn apart, not always by death. You never knew who you would be facing, who you would try to kill. It could be your neighbor or your lover. Those were the worst cases. I was able to mend the broken bones, the torn ligaments, the ruptured nerves. But I could never cure the mental scars, the broken hearts.

There are so many I could never aid. They haunt my dreams at night, weigh down my conscience, be they friend or foe. Grown men, begging for the release of death. Inner Circle Death Eaters who no longer care whether or not the person tending to their wounds is pureblood. It's amazing what pain can do to a person. Everyone changes when they're hurt. Ideals, prejudices- they don't matter when faced with the horrifying reality of death. I've seen people from both sides of the battlefield at their lowest, and there isn't that much of a difference.

I may have seen many at their weakest, but I've witnessed humanity at its strongest as well. Moody lost his leg because he left my ward too early. It was a stupid, idiotic thing to do, but he turned the tide in the Battle of Hogsmead. The entire war could have gone differently if he weren't so hell-bent on saving everyone he can.

He's much like Minerva in that respect. She never lets the Death Eaters hurt anyone if she can help it. She saves as many lives as she can. Sometimes I worry about the cost.

She's a murderer. I saw her after her first kill and she was so cold, so clinical. I feared her in that moment. It was like she had forgotten that her enemies were as human as she was. I've seen her with Severus. She treats him coldly, acting as though she can barely restrain herself from attacking him. Once she called him a bastard to his face.

He might act like it, but Severus is no bastard. He hides himself behind a cold mask. I worry for him. He hides his emotions- even from himself. I wish he wouldn't, yet I fear what would happen if he didn't. He tried to kill himself once, years ago, before he'd perfected his mask. I don't know what happened to cause him to take such a drastic action.

I don't know, but I have my suspicions. Slytherin house seems to be a haven for abused children. Each year, Severus brings at least five to my attention. He seems to have a skill for finding them. He always sits with the child when I question them about their home. They turn to him whenever I ask the more pointed questions. He reassures them and encourages them to continue. They always do. He understands them far better than I ever could. The kind of understanding that only ever comes from experience. He's so gentle with them, so kind. Then he leaves the room and once more slips into his role as the Bastard of Hogwarts.

He's not the only one who changes when out from the public eye. Lucius Malfoy was hurt when dueling with Albus in the Battle of Hogsmead. When I tended to him, he apologized for being such a trouble, thanking me and asking what he could do to repay me. I told him _"It's my job, Malfoy. I heal who I can and ease the passing of those I can't. For the most part, I love it. I love helping people. Breaking something is simple. Fixing it is difficult, yet much more rewarding. Yet there are some times I hate my job, when I encounter things that are unfixable, or that we did not have the tools to fix. Too many people have died before me because the potions they needed were not brewed or because we could not afford the ingredients. If you enabled me to stop that, I would be in your debt."_ He just looked at me. _  
__"Consider it done."_

I didn't believe he would do anything, but within a week there was a large, anonymous donation to the Hospital Wing.

Yes, there are times I hate my job, when I feel like I have failed at life. When I couldn't do anything.  
But then there are the times when I could help, when I could heal, when I could save lives.  
Breaking something is simple. Fixing it is difficult, yet much more rewarding.

_Minerva McGonagall__  
_The first year's boats always arrive after the carriages. The older years are in the Hall before I am required to introduce the new students to Hogwarts. I appreciate this, as it allows me to stand guard for both.

Many of my pupils believe that I watch over them in order to stop any pranks, bullying, or smuggling that may go on. This is an incentive, but a minor one. Most of the pranks are merely amusing, incidents to smile at in private. I trust all my colleagues- except maybe Sybil –to keep the harassment at a minimum. The various banned items that are creatively snuck in are a minor annoyance at best –though I did have a laugh at the boy who thought it would be a good idea to hide a Fanged Frisbee up his ass. Poppy had to remove it with a spell usually used when a lonely boy made a mistake while experimenting.

No, the real reason I watch over them is to ensure they all return, safe and sound. My peers in Beauxbatons and Durmstrang would think this practice absurd. But _they _haven't lived through two wars, teaching through one of them. _They've _never experienced the shock, disbelief and gut-wrenching heart-ache when you realize that the missing students aren't skiving- they're _dead. They _don't know what it's like to lose students to past students. James Potter was going to be my apprentice. He was _killed_ by a man who used to be my boyfriend, once upon a time.

I lost my family to Grindelwald. When a new Dark Lord appeared, I swore I would do my best to ensure no other child was orphaned like I was. I threw myself into protecting everyone I could, in any way I could. I know Poppy was horrified when I first killed. She didn't talk to me for three days.

I couldn't understand what upset her. Sure, I probably could have ended it differently. I might've been able to just stun him, without any more threat to myself. But what then? He might've been thrown into jail, but more likely he'd escape or sweet-talk and bribe his way out of any kind of punishment. He would be free again, no doubt.

If he went free, he could've hurt another person, orphaned another child, raped another girl. I couldn't allow that to happen. I've experienced too much pain in my life to let anyone else suffer as I have.

Yes, I killed him. I do not know if he had any children who will now live without a father. I do not _want _to know. I do not want more pain on my conscience. I feel guilty enough already.

If it weren't for me, none of this would have happened. With the right words, I could have stopped Tom from going the way he has. He was my _boyfriend!_ He _loved _me! _I loved him!_ I loved him, yet I abandoned him. He comforted me when my family died, and I turned on him! I knew he was orphaned as well, yet I yelled that he didn't understand. I told him he didn't know what it was like, because his parents weren't necessarily dead. I felt like something inside me had died, and wanted someone to feel the pain I felt.

I lashed out at him. I reminded him how his father abandoned him, screamed that he deserved it. I told him that it was no wonder nobody wanted him, that I understood why the orphanage people hated him. I screamed at him to leave me, that I never wanted to speak him again.

He left me. He never spoke to me again.

Since we left school, I've only seen him once more. He attacked Hogsmead on a weekend, when all the children were visiting. Albus was dueling Bellatrix, Lucius, Rabastan and Rudolphus all at once, so it was left to me to fight Tom. Back then, I didn't know who he was.

He threw the truth in my face. He told me of his true identity, then proceeded to repeat many of the things I said to him all those years ago. That he hated me. That he was sure my parents were happier know they weren't saddled with me any longer. That he wished I was dead. My wand fell from my hand as I stood there with tears streaming down my face. He could have killed me, but he stunned me. He let me live.

I died inside.

_Luna Lovegood__  
_This is my first time riding in the school carriages. The others in my year question how we will get up to the castle when there is no way for the carriages to move.  
_"How are we supposed reach the school when the horses are taking a day off?"__  
__"Don't be silly, Hogwarts doesn't need horses. See, the carriages have started to move!"__  
__"By themselves? Sometimes I wonder whether magic is real, or if I'm hallucinating!"__  
__"Of course it's real, you stupid mudblood. It's obvious their charmed. Sometimes I wonder what the Board was thinking, letting idiots like you into what was once a respectable school! It's obvious you know nothing about our world, you ignorant bint!"_

The last comment causes a fury to awaken inside me. I want to slap my horrible cousin. I want to beat him to a bloody pulp! But I can't. I have to stay in the background, be as unthreatening as possible. Who knows what could happen to me if the Malfoys saw me as a danger? I'd suffer a fatal accident, no doubt. I may be related to them, but we're no family. If Grandpa Abraxas had died before the wedding, Lucius would have killed my Mum for marrying Dad. Mum was always Grandpa's favourite child, and Abraxas made sure to leave her a decent sum when he died.

That only made Lucius hate her all the more. He viciously and publicly disowned her. My Mum was such a sweet, thoughtful lady. I have no idea how she could've been siblings with Lucius Malfoy, the foulest, evilest git in the universe!

His son's no better. An arrogant bully. He thinks so much of himself that sometimes I just want to wipe that self-satisfied smirk of his face! But I can't. I must keep to my charade as 'loony' loner Luna, harmless and stupid. Loony Lovegood wouldn't dare so much as _touch _someone as important as Draco. Luna Lovegood would, but at school I can't be Luna.

Stuff that. His victim has turned bright red and teary. I'm not going to sit back and watch while he makes people cry. Everyone else ignores the scene like the fearful, blind, self-centred _sheep _that they are. If I cared what the others thought, I'd turn around now and pretend this never happened. But I don't care.

_Always be yourself-__  
__Those that matter,__  
__Don't care,__  
__Those that care,__  
__Don't matter._

When I was young, my Mum always told me that whenever I was upset. I had a problem with bullies, but she could always make me feel better. I wish she were here now.

Since she died, I've done my best to follow the poem. I'm not going to let her down now- I'm just going to approach the matter in a more subtle manner than I'd like to. Sometimes I think I should've been in Slytherin instead of my cousin- God knows he doesn't have a cunning bone in his body, but I

This is one of those times. I can't outright punch the little bastard, but there are other ways to humiliate people. I can't be too overt or I'll draw attention to myself. I make sure to paste a dreamy smile to my face before stepping up to him.

"_Fool." _He tells the girl. _"You truly think your precious little Potter will save you? He's as useless as Longbottom! He can't hold a wand to save his life. Lockhart was better! At least his spells did something. Potter will never be able to save you. Even if he could, he wouldn't bother. You're nothing. He only uses you. I pity you, clinging so pathetically to the first person to ever show you the least bit of kindness. You are naught but a blind dog, your lead firmly in his hand"_

That makes me see red. I want to slap the stupid boy, punch him, then kick him when he's down. I'm about to take a threatening step towards him, but someone's already there.

My cousin is now doubled over on the ground screaming in pain; he's clutching his balls like they're on fire. His victim is standing over him, fists clenched.

"_I do not _think_ that Harry will save us. I _know _it. He is the best wizard I know, better even than Dumbledore, though he would never think so. Didn't you listen to Snape, that first day of class? He told us then that there is more to being a wizard than silly wand-waving. It's true. There are so many things Harry has that you can never hope to gain. Charisma. Determination. Charm. Pizzazz. _Friends._ You know nothing of these things. You only have money and a tradition of inbreeding. Harry might not be able to defeat the Dark Lord alone. But he will not be alone. I will support him, even if nobody else will. Because Harry is my friend. Not my master. My _friend_. I do not expect _you_ to understand the concept. It is well known that you are greatly lacking in that department. You have no friends. Associates, maybe. Minions. Look at yourself. Whimpering on the ground like a baby. No-one's trying to help you. You're alone. Abandoned. It is not me who is the pathetic one. It is you."_

She spits on the boy. I clap. Several others follow.

Soon I am leading a standing ovation.

I walk with the girl to her carriage. It's a good thing I do, because my cousin finally recovers and sends his thugs after us. I scare them off before they can do more than push the girl around a little. When I turn back to her, she's staring at the Thestrals bottom like she's seen a ghost, muttering under her breath about invisible animals. I smile and tell her it's a Thestral.

She looks spooked. "_Aren't Thestrals Dark creatures?" _she asks. I frown.

_"I do not believe that Thestrals are dark creatures. It is silly to classify them as such simply because you have to have seen death to see them. Death does not taint you with darkness. It merely opens your mind. It lets you see things that would otherwise be invisible. It shows you what reality is like, giving you more knowledge about the world._

_What you do with that knowledge is up to you. You can fear it, like Voldemort, allowing that fear to consume you and eventually overpower you. You can avoid it, shutting out the world and becoming narrow-minded, only accepting what fits in with your narrow mind view._

_You can accept it, like me. Accept that some things are different. Accept that some things are unexplainable and unreasonable, for what is more illogical than death? Embrace the strange, the unbelievable. Death seemed to be a myth, yet it happened. What other fables may be true? The world opened up to me, to experience, to explore._

_Death is not nice. But there is some good in it. After seeing death, you can also see thestrals."_

I stop talking as I notice the girl's expression change. _"I can't see them. I can't see them. Oh, I do hope that means what I think it does! Of course it does. Silly me. I mean, he can't really be...__  
__Can he? No, of course he can't. He's _Harry. _But still, everyone says it's impossible to survive...__  
__What _am _I thinking? If it's impossible, of course he'll do it."_

It sounds like she's trying to convince herself.

_Hermione Granger__  
_I trot to keep up with the new professor as he strides through the hall. Harry is held tightly to his chest. I struggle to make sense of what's happened, but for once my analytical mind fails me. I know what _should_ have happened- I've read all about Dementors. Harry _should_ be soulless. But he **can't** be. There's no logic to the thought, just the simple fact that he **can't** be. It's _impossible_. He's _Harry_. He _must_ survive. He **always **does- with the troll, the stone, the spiders, the basilisk and everything else he's faced. I'm not sure how much of his home life fits into that category. He just _can't_ die. He can_not_. He _won't_. He just _**won't**_!

I realize I've long past rational thought, but I don't care. I've fallen back on my core beliefs, and Harry features prominently in them. How could he not? He's _Harry_. I don't know what I'd do without him. Sure, I survived eleven years, but I only survived them. Harry makes me_ live_. He believes in me. No-one's ever done that before, never thought I could make a true change. They jeered at me for thinking that life _should _be fair. I know it's _not, _but it should be. Yet whenever I say that to any of my tormentors, I'm sneered at for thinking it's possible.

I know it's not. It's impossible for life to be fair, because no-one wants it to be so. They all want to be better than everyone else. They want to have _power_.

Harry doesn't. He doesn't _care_ about power or anything like that. What with his position as the boy-who-lived, he could probably do _anything _he wanted. He's aware of how much his peers look up to him, even if he's ignorant of how much sway he really holds. I know I shouldn't, but I want to keep him unknowing. I'm scared that, if he knew how many girls want to be his friend, he'd abandon me for another, prettier, smarter, better girl. At the same time, I hate myself for thinking that, because I know he won't. That's what my brains telling me from experience, but I find it hard to believe. Nobody's ever wanted me before, _me, Hermione Granger._ They would suck up to me for answers and easy homework help. But he likes _me, _and I can't believe it. I feel like one of those people who spent half their life _knowing _that the world is flat only to find out that it's truly round.

I've always been told that I was worthless and now this boy comes along and makes me feel special. I _want _to believe him, I really do, but if it's true why was everyone so mean to me before?

Oh, that's right. It's because _life's not fair_.

God, I _hate _those words.


	3. Treachery

**UPDATING TIME;**  
I am 13 YEARS OLD! This is not very quick. Get over it. I'm barely into my teens!

**Treachery**

_Ronald Weasley_

I hide the sneer that graces my face as I glance down on the pallid corpse of my friend. No doubt his fan club would scream should they see my face. They think the world of their 'Golden Hero', _Perfect-bloody-fucking-Potter._ What's so great about _him_? Why is he the special one? Why does everyone rush to his bedside and cry over _his_ dead body? They wouldn't do the same for me.

I am jealous, I admit it. I am _sick_and _tired_ of them fawning over him- always _him_. Sometimes I gain a pinch of reflected glory, but it's always reflected. Anyone who talks to me always ends up asking questions about _him_. I am left in the shadows, always in the shadows. Nobody cares for me like they do him- I am always second place, never my own person.

All I want is for _someone_ to care about _me_- not _him_. Hell, I would follow You-Know-Who if the guy looked at me and saw Ron Weasley instead of 'Harry Potter's Sidekick'. I just want to be recognized as my own person- is that too much to ask for? No one truly knows who I am. No one knows my hopes, my fears, my dreams, my ambitions. No one sees me as an individual in my own right.

My mother looks at me and sees another child. She does not know me and does not care to know me. She forgets my favourite colour, even when I remind her twice each year. She does not know that I hate corned beef, though I told her every time I got home from school for years. I gave up eventually. I tried making excuses for her, tried to convince myself she truly loved me. I failed. I have come to accept her indifference, yet cannot help feeling jealous at the attention she piles on Ginny, just for being a girl, the twins, for being pranksters, Percy, for being perfect, Charlie, for getting such a dangerous job and Bill, for the way he wears his hair. Honestly? She favours them because of gender and hairstyle!

Dumbledore looks at me and sees Harry Potter's best friend. I know he lets me get away with heaps more than he would if I had never met Potter. Potter might not realize, but it's obvious the Headmaster prefers him, just because he has this scar on his forehead. Dumbledore doesn't punish me, because if he did Potter would get upset. Even the bloody Supreme Warlock bows to Perfect Potters needs!

I cast a dark look at the man, sitting across from me. He doesn't even notice, too busy staring worriedly into Potter's face. A gasp from the hospital bed startles me, and I spin around to glare at the boy in it. The Headmaster is both concerned and hopeful, sharply gesturing for Pomfrey.

The mediwitch hastens to the side of her favourite patient. Others would not comprehend how much she cares for Potter, but I am more observant than people think. Often I have nothing to do but watch the people around me. People rarely notice my scrutiny, as they barely ever realize I am there in the first place.

She bends over him with a startled look on her face and immediately begins running scans. Her face shows alternately shock, wonder, hope and relief.

'_What the Fucking Bloody Hell?'  
'Was that- was that what I thought it was?'  
'It can't be!'  
'Please, oh please…'  
'Just hurry up and wake up already!'  
'It's a hallucination, it has to be. I can't get my hopes up.'  
'Fucking bloody Shit!'_

Around me the noise level has risen to shocking proportions. Everyone is yelling over each other, trying to make their theories heard. I am silent, staring at the corpse-that-might-not-be-a-corpse, lost in my own thoughts. The others will take my silence as a symbol of shock and relief. It's not.

It is bitterness, pure and simple. Of course. Why was I surprised? Saint Potter always achieves the unachievable. For some reason, he can do things far above the reach of us mere mortals. He can defeat the darkest wizard in a century as a one-year old, he can kill a Basilisk at twelve. Why should I be startled that he can come back from the dead as well?

What makes him so special?

_Harry Potter  
_I don't know what's happening. I feel strange. Like my mind suddenly grew a hell of a lot bigger. It feels familiar. I'm sure I've felt this way before. Problem is, I can't remember when.

Whatever it is, I like it. I feel more like _me,_if that makes any sense at all. Like half of my mind went on holiday for a couple of years and it only just got back. Feels like it picked up a lot of knowledge on its tour. There's a lot of stuff in my mind now that I'm _sure_ I'd never heard of before. Half the stuff I don't particularly _want_ to know. Perhaps all this extra matter in my head is just things I picked up but blocked out because I didn't want to know it?

It's more scientifically plausible, but my gut's telling me the holiday theory is more likely. I'm going to trust in my instinct for two reasons. The first is that it's never lead me astray before.  
The second is that, whenever something concerns me, the more unreasonable a theory is the more likely it is. The Headmaster once told me that the truth is often a beautiful and terrible thing. I say that the truth is often less believable than the lies.

I should know. I have a sixth sense for when someone's lying to me. You've got no _idea_ how much people lie. It got to the stage where I constantly had this buzz in my ear, saying _itsalieitsalieitsalielielie._

It's died out in the past two years. I realize now that I never really thought much of it, which was really stupid. Why would it suddenly just _stop?_ And why the hell didn't I question it?

I look back on the last two years and could've hit myself. I haven't questioned anything since I was told about magic. My mind flashes back to when Ron, Mione and I went to save the Philosophers Stone. I was baffled by Snape's puzzle but Mione was quick to solve it. _"Brilliant."_ She had said._"This isn't magic- it's logic –a puzzle. A lot of the greatest wizards haven't got an ounce of logic, they'd be stuck here forever!"_

It's true. I don't consider myself a particularly great wizard, but ever since I went to Diagon Alley, I've lost all my common sense. Actually, it's probably closer to uncommon sense. In the Wizarding World, It's like magic compensates for reason. If you have one, you can't have the other. Unless you're Hermione, of course.

That makes me wonder if I've lost my magic. I seem to be thinking things through more than usual. Like I used to when I lived year round with my 'relatives'. Normally, I would panic in this kind of situation, but I seem strangely calm. I quickly wiggle my magic, sighing in relief when it responds. I'm still a wizard, no doubt about that.  
Hang on…

I freeze. WTF is going on? Since when have I been able to control my magic like it was my arm? I frantically scour my mind for any lead on what's happening to me. Instantly, I am provided with the answer. My magic is a part of me, just like any other limb. It will always obey my commands.

While that solves one question, it opens up the road for many, many more. I _know_I have never learned this, anywhere. Yet I know it. I know it, but I've never learned it. Or have I?  
Good Lord, this is driving me bloody insane. I pride myself on knowing my own thoughts, how my mind works. Even though I have slacked off on this department for the past two years, I still have not lost it. Yet now…

I fear I have mislaid the one thing that is most important to me; my sense of _self_. Of what makes me _me_. It is not hugely significant; I find I still have the same strengths, the same weaknesses, the same fundamental beliefs. It is my _ideals_ that have changed. I cannot help but fear when, searching myself, I find that I know longer care about the Dursleys, about whether they live or die- about muggles in general. I have always felt a certain disregard for their lives. But now, I know I could easily hold Vernon under a Cruciatus and feel no remorse. That's wrong! I should _protect_ my Uncle, being the stronger one.

Then a traitorous part of me speaks up. Why? That simple question almost unhinges me. _Why_ indeed? After all_he_has done to _me_, I see no reason why I should spare him a passing glance. I can feel myself hating him,_despising_him…

There are two parts of me, fighting, both trying to force each other into submission. One – the part that went on holiday, the more cynical, hateful, cruel, pessimistic part – wants me to _kill_ him, tells me that he is _nothing, nothing, nothing_. Another is passionately idealistic and self-disgusted, saying it was _my_fault I was hurt, beaten and starved, that if I had just been a bit better I would have been treated kindly by my _relatives_. It tells me to protect _everyone_, to do what _they_want me to do; to be a golden idol- for it is not their fault, is it? It is the part that has been in control for my Hogwarts years, the _hero_, the eternal optimist.

_I am not an optimist and I am not a pessimist. I am a realist_. That simple thought brings a realization smashing into me; neither of these two parts that fight for dominance- neither of them are _me_. They are parts of me- to my eternal shame. But they are not _me_. This is a freeing realization- I do not need to decide between them, for there is no competition.

Not a competition maybe, but a search. A search inside me for me. It makes no sense yet it makes perfect sense. It is but it isn't. My thoughts are wild, branching off in every direction then fizzling out before they are completed. Tumbling over each other- going everywhere and getting nowhere. This will not do. I _will not_ let myself be split into two halves of an unknown whole.

I decide that the easiest way to protect myself is to search my memories. They will remind me of what I am truly like. It will likely also show me what in Dante's nine levels of Hell happened to make me like this! But I will start from the beginning- I wish to recover my true personality before discovering what happened to change it.

I enter my memories.


	4. Memorium

**AN:**Kudos to all the reviewers! I must admit I grew a bit lax with this story and didn't think of it for ages… then when I was clearing out my inbox I noticed that someone had commented on my story- then I went back and read all the reviews. They made me feel so guilty that I went to work on this immediately!

Actually, I own Harry Potter. I stole the copyright from JKR.

**Memoriam **

_I am young. That much is obvious. My body is clumsy and thin. I am easily dwarfed by the stinky giant that leans over me. No, not giant. To call this thing I giant would be insulting- to the giants. It is Dursley, unfortunately._

_He grabs my hair and wrenches my head back. His words are indiscernible to my ears- they are too loud and too angry. I shiver, looking up at my Uncle with wide, betrayed eyes as he shoves me back into my cupboard._

_What makes him like this? Am I truly as worthless as he thinks I am? I must be. For if I am not, why does everyone hate me so? What makes me a worthless freak? It must be my fault. If I am better, maybe they will like me better, maybe they will accept me- maybe they will love me.  
Wishful thinking. Freaks aren't loved._

o~O~o

_Many scenes like the first repeat themselves. I am beaten, starved, caged like an animal. How could I have possibly forgotten this?_

o~O~o

_This is new. I am school- preschool. I am eager, wanting to prove myself worthy of attention that is not cruel._

_The teacher –Miss Delark- is lecturing us on abusive parents. I am tuning her out- after all, I am not abused. Then a sentence she says captures my attention. 'Abuse is classified as an action or inaction that results in serious harm, mental, emotional or physical to the child. Purposefully breaking anothers arm is serious harm. Straving someone by giving them less than three meals a day is serious harm. Making them believe that it is their fault it the worst thing possible for the abuser to do to their victim.'_

_This makes me stop and stare at her. Does that mean that_ I _am abused? I did not think so, but…  
Perhaps I am. I resolve to look it up later._

o~O~o

_After school, I visit the library. This is not as abnormal for me as it would be for a normal four year old. I had thought that I could prove my worth by getting the highest grades in the class. Of course, my relatives did not care for my efforts. They just yelled at me for getting higher grades than Dudley the Dumbass._

_I continued to come to the library, for here I could escape. The books I read were not the normal level for my age group- I had advanced far beyond that. Sometimes I thought that I had somehow forced my mind to improve and develop at a faster rate than is usual. I would always dismiss this idea- such a thing was too like magic._

_But what was important was that I was smart. I had to hide my intelligence, but that did not mean it ceased to exist. I could easily read the adult books- like the one I had open right now._

_It was titled_'Act Against Abuse'_–an amusing alliteration. Cracking the book open, I glanced over the Table of Contents, quickly deciding to flip first to the page entitled_'Are you abused? Take the test and see!'

_There was a quiz set out with different sections for_Physical, Mental, Emotional and Sexual_. I took my pen in hand and snuck a glance at the librarian to ensure she would not notice me desecrating one of her most prized possessions. I quickly glanced over the instructions, then began ticking the boxes I thought suited me best._

_When I tallied my results, I found myself with high scores in all but the sexual column. This last was not surprising; the Dursleys only ever touched me in anger, to come into such intimate contact with me would kill them. They think I carry some disease._

_Trembling now, I go back to the start of the book. I wish to read this through. The very first words have already captured my attention irrevocably._

'Any human who willfully harms a child placed in their care is undeserving of the title. An abuser is nothing more than an animal, a monster. They are lower than dirt upon your shoe, inferior to Hitler himself, for at least that man had a reason. There is no excuse for damaging an innocent. Anyone that does is naught but a cruel, heartless, worthless Freak.'

_Jesus Christ. Could this be true? Could they really be the ones who are bad, freakish?_

_Re-reading the words makes my heart all but explode. I am not the devils child; they are. I am superior to them. Maybe not in knowledge, perhaps not in experience. But morally, I will always hold the higher ground._

o~O~o

_Vernon has taken Petunia out shopping; I am there to carry the bags, nothing more. We are passing a cheap jewelry store that sells only fake gems and painted gold when a call makes my Uncle stop dead in his tracks._

_Turning around curiously, I recognize at once the woman whose sugary voice has interrupted the trip. She is the talk of the neighborhood; recently moved in, you cannot see her face for the amount of makeup that covers it, causing her to look as though she is wearing a mask. It is rumored that she conned a doctor into giving her breast implants, then fled the town instead of paying. Her clothes are considered a scandal in the conservative Privet Drive._

_She is also Vernon's latest slut._

_As such, she sashays her way up to her bed partner, draping herself over him like a bad smell. No doubt she heard word of his bonus and is looking for money. Petunia's lips, already thin, compress into non-existence as a wet kiss is planted on her husband's lips._

"_Kindly remove yourself from my spouse at once!"  
"Oh, your spouse? Petunia, honey, surely you must be mistaken, for Vernon proposed to me just last week!"  
"I didn't!"  
"Oh, hush dear. I think it's time to announce it to the world!"  
"Vernon wouldn't do that!"  
"Oh, but he did."  
"Prove it, you slut!"  
"Now, honey, there's no need to get all upset about it."_

_The woman gives my aunt a faux concerned look, then very deliberately places a hand on her arm. On her hand is a ring- a ring I know very well. It is one of Petunia's most prized possessions, given to her by her mother on her mother's deathbed. A simple golden circlet with a single diamond embedded in it. For the first time, I pity my aunt._

"_Pet, you know I-"  
"Don't call me that! I am not your pet! Not- Not now."  
"But-"  
"SHUT. UP! Don't talk to me! Don't you DARE talk to me!"  
"Now, now, honey. There's no need to shout. I do apologize if my fiancé led you on- I'm sure he didn't mean to."_

_She gives a smile that looks at fake as Santa Claus. They stand there, staring each other down, my lipless, furious aunt glaring at the lazily blinking prostitute. Vernon has no idea what to do- it's debatable whether he even realizes what is going on._

"_Pet, please. I have no idea who this woman is!"  
"I'm sure."  
"Now come on, dear, don't deny it. You know you love me- why else did you propose?"  
"_ _I didn't-"  
"Now, now, dear, please stop pretending you don't know me. I don't like it. It's not right to deny your love for your other half. Denial is not good for marriage. If you keep it up I might break off our engagement."  
"But we're not-"  
"Oh, don't worry, dear. I won't break off our wedding for something as trivial as this. There is no way I would leave you for_nothing_. It would have to be_big_for me to let you go."  
"What do you mean?"_

_I sigh. Though it is obvious to me what the woman is asking for, yet Vernon seems clueless._

"_She wants money, Uncle Vernon."  
"Wha?"_

_Good lord. His mind must truly be frozen if he's acting like this. No, I'm not meaning the troll-like grunt he communicates in. I'm talking about the lack of vitriol aimed at my personage for daring to speak._

"_She wants money. Then she'll leave."  
"Oh."_

_I hate the fact that I had to spell it out so clearly for him. My words have had a detrimental effect on Petunia. She is now trembling, her hands spasming. She steps up to my uncle's mistress. When she speaks, her voice is the cool calm of chilled whiskey._

"_Have you been fucking my husband for money, slut?"  
"Yes."_

_The woman does not even bother to hide either the fact or her smirk. My aunt is speechless. Luckily, my Uncle finally takes the hint I gave him and shoves a twenty pound bill into the woman's hand._

"_Go. Just go."  
"Whatever you say, dear. But if you want any_special_services later, you know who to talk to!"  
"GET OUT OF MY SIGHT, BITCH!"  
"Now, now, no need to through a temper tantrum, honey. You'll burst a blood vessel if you're not careful."_

_There is a definite sway to her step as she releases Vernon and walks away. She stops just once, to wave over her shoulder at Petunia. The hand she waves with is the one wearing my grandmothers' ring._

_I look back at my aunt. She is crying silently, a look of utter betrayal on her face. I have never seen her look so despairing. Then she turns to her husband, a question in her eyes. 'Why?' it screams. 'Why,_ why, WHY!' _I know that question, that despair. It's what I feel with every slap, every cuff, every hurtful word. I know how much it hurts._

_That's why I walk up to the scarlet woman who has her back to me, walking away. Not because I care for my aunt, not because I sympathize with her position. But because I understand what she's feeling. Because I know what it's like to know that nobody cares for you. I know what it's like when someone who should care for you proves that they don't. It's like you were walking high over an impossibly dangerous river when the wooden slats of the bridge suddenly disappear from beneath you. When you look down and there's nothing there apart from dark water, white waves and sharp rocks. When you fall and all you can do is reach out blindly and hope you catch hold of the handrail. When, even if you catch it, you have to spend the rest of your life holding on to that slim metal rope. When you just want someone to come along and give you a hand and a smile, to pull you up. Because if they don't, then eventually you're hand will go numb and you'll fall into the uncaring waters below._

_I've been there. Hell, I'm still there. Every day, I wish that someone will come and help, will pull me up and carry me to the other side of the bridge where I can fall on my knees and kiss the ground._

_I've always wanted help. I've cursed everyone I've met for not giving it. Now I see my aunt, her being screaming out for help just as I do in the privacy of my mind. I would be a hypocrite if I gave nothing. And I am no hypocrite._

_That's why I walk up to the scarlet woman who has her back to me, walking away._

_I dart around her and in front of her. There is no way she can avoid tripping over me. Just as I want. She's angry though, screaming abuse at me. I ignore it with practiced ease._

"_Oh, I'm so sorry Ma'am! I didn't mean to trip you up, I swear! I'm so clumsy!"_

_I take her hand and give a futile pull, grimacing inside when I fall on my ass instead. I continue to blather nonsense lies as she starts shrieking at me to get lost. Adopting a scared, innocent look, I run to hide behind my aunt. I already have what I want._

_Petunia turns on me as Vernon's mistress walks away in a huff. She is already tense, and there is no doubt that I have pushed her to breaking point. However, before she can start her tirade, I press something into her hand._

_She looks down in confusion, then slowly opens her palm. There lies a golden circlet with a single diamond embedded in it._

_She looks at me. Her mouth closes._

_She never thanks me._

o~O~o

Sun is shining, sky is blue  
Grass is wilting in summer heat  
Flowers every scent and hue  
Asphalt burns my bleeding feet

The children's afternoon siesta  
For I alone, no escape to dream  
Parents preparing for fiesta  
Left abandoned, my tears stream

Nature's perfume teases my nose  
I yearn to see, to be free to roam  
To feel green clover tickling my toes  
Instead of writing in my blood this poem.

_My finger pauses on the cupboard wall as I finish my little rhyme. It is no masterpiece, no speech to be remembered for a century or more. It is no sonnet for love-struck children to woo each other with._

_I am glad. I do not want others to use this poem. It is my poem, my thoughts, my feelings, my experiences. To allow anyone else to speak it would feel wrong, insulting. They would not understand it, they would not realize the truth, the pain, the rejection it holds._

_I give the wall a bitter-sweet smile and cry myself to sleep._

o~O~o

_I watch apathetically as the obese ignoramus in front of me proves that shit can come out from both ends. He seems to have contracted that unfortunate two-fold malady that is so prominent in the modern world;__Diarrhea of the mouth; constipation of the brain. Whenever he grows angry with me, he tends to spew out whatever comes to mind- be it of his distaste for the breakfast I cooked, the superiors who –correctly- suspect him of being the thief who has embezzled millions from the company coffers or the argument he has had with his mistress, the nymphomaniac at number 23._

_He disgusts me._

_After my revelation in the library, I had, for a while, believed that holding the moral upper ground meant caring for them, loving them, even when they hit me and cursed me. I tried, God knows I tried. Yet I couldn't._

_This puzzled me much. I_knew_that I was the better one; the righteous one. Yet I could not bring myself to care for this_ape.

_His hand comes down on me again, slapping my face so hard that my small frame goes barreling into the cupboard door. I don't bother tensing- I know that the pain will only be worse if I do. Besides, I have suffered this so often that it is not difficult to keep myself lax, unmoving. I slide boneless to the floor, not bothering to protest the unfairness of my life._

"Freak that you are-"  
"-so now May-May is mad at me, won't even let me kiss her-"  
"-all your fault, off course-"  
"-not that you'd know gratitude if it bit you on the ass-"  
"-no wonder nobody can love you-"  
"-unworthy bastard-"  
"-Pet's mad, ever since she discovered-"  
"Why did you tell her, you freak?"  
"-no idea why I married her, she's good for nothing- just like you-"  
"-ashamed to call you a human being, let alone a relative-"

_I stare in incredulity at his last comment._He's_ashamed of_me_? More like the other way around!_

"And stop looking at me with those god-damned freaky eyes! Devil's eyes, they are. Devil's eyes!"  
"I thought Satan had red eyes, _Uncle_."

_His visage turns the colour of day-old beetroot casserole. I wonder absently whether his face would feel the same squelchy not-quite-liquid as the casserole did. He does not like it when I challenge him in any way, nor does he appreciate being reminded of his unfortunate relation to me._

_I barely hold myself back from screaming as he stomps on my foot, most certainly breaking many of the delicate bones. It is pointless to protest, pointless to cry. Weakness will only encourage my bastard of an Uncle._

_God, how I hate him._

_I am now certain that I was wrong in thinking that I must care for him in order to be better than him. I do not believe I have to do anything to be better than him; he is so thoroughly low and disgusting that Stalin could be considered more moral than he._

_Stalin, after all, could be looked at as a crusader, doing what he thought to be best for the populace.  
Vernon is simply a prejudiced, hateful slug._

o~O~o

Holly garlands on the doors  
Presents set in groups of fours  
Merry red decorates the floors  
My life's blood

Entire house clean and neat  
Tis the season for a family meet  
Door opens, Aunt Marge I greet  
She shoves me aside

Dinner with all Dursley kin  
Chatter abounds, stories spin  
Happy laughter as they turn-in  
I listen through the wall

Mine are not the gifts under the tree  
Who would by a present for worthless me?  
Caged in a cupboard, for naught but work let free  
Why can't they just let be?

_I have a collection of poetry now, all written in the colour carmine. It decorates the walls and the ceiling of my little room, though not the floor. The floor is entirely covered in blood, making writing in it pointless._

_I ran out of space after a while, so started using some of my old schoolbooks instead. Sometimes I manage to smuggle a pencil or a couple of crayons into my cupboard and use those instead. Yet it does not matter what I write with or where I write my creations. They are still truth and I will always remember them. They symbolize my life. The pain, the loneliness, the bitter ache in my chest.  
And I will always remember them._

_Sometimes I wonder if I am a masochist._

o~O~o

_I hurry down the street, my head bowed. It would not do for anyone to notice the red slap-mark on my face; someone might accuse me of being abused!_

_Yeah, right._

_Nobody in Surrey gives a fingernail cutting for anyone but themselves. They don't look, they don't notice, they don't think, they don't care._

_Story of my life._

o~O~o

slip-slap  
slip-slap  
slip-slap

_The old, scraggly brush rhythmically strokes the picket fence that runs around the Dursley property. It's white, of course. Whenever it gets the slightest bit off-colour due to dirt or weather, I'm forced to repaint it. Like now, for instance._

slip-slap  
slip-slap

_My chores are always boring and tiring, but they give me time away from my relations to think. It is a pity that most of the time I find myself thinking about those same relations. They are driving me insane._

slip-slap  
slip-slap  
slip-slap  
slip-slap

_I hate them, God I hate them. I despise them and everything they represent. I fear them as well, of course. I wish they did not affect me so much, but I cannot stop myself from dreading them._

slip-slap

_A picket fence is supposed to represent a peaceful, middle-class life, full of children and happy days._

slip-slap

_To me it represents back-breaking labor and sun-stroke._

slip-slap  
slip-slap  
slip-slap

_I pause in my work and lean tiredly against the fence. My forehead hits paint that is still wet and I know I will need to sand and repaint that area again. In my lethargy, I cannot bring myself to care. It is minutes more work for a job that will take hours anyway._

_I look through the crack between slats into the garden next door. The young boy who lives there, Nigel, is sitting on the steps. His knees are curled up to his chest, his forehead resting against them. His hand lies curled on the step beside him. His shoulders are slumped. No doubt his parents threw him out so that they could yell at each other in private. Petunia would have a field day with this news._

_Cooie comes up beside his master and snuffles gently at the hand. Nigel musters up a somewhat watery smile when he looks up at the golden Labrador that is giving him a concerned look. He strokes the dog's muzzle and Cooie leans into the touch._

_My heart clenches. I wish I had a pet, a friend who would comfort me. Instead I am cursed with relatives who in no way are family._

_Vernon is a rabid cur, pouch-jawed and thick-set. He is quick to fury and never calm. He takes what he wants, when he wants, like a berserk mongrel chasing after a stick. After he catches the stick, he worries it, gnawing and clawing it to shreds._

_Petunia is a small yappy type of dog, annoying you with her incessant high-pitched bark. She is no terrier, preferring not to leave her couch or indeed to anything else at all._

_I snort as I realize that I do indeed view my Aunt and Uncle as dogs._

**Severus Snape**  
I stand over Potter's bedside, wanting nothing more than to collapse in tears. He is alive, but I have failed. I_swore_- I gave a _magical oath_- that I would protect Lily's son. I failed. It is only pure chance that he survived. Even now, it is questionable whether or not he will wake, or simply continue in the near coma he has been in for the past hour. Even if he rouses it is unknown as to what his mental state will be.

He whimpers in his sleep.

When I heard what had happened, I rushed here immediately. It did not hit me until I saw the still figure in the bed did it strike me that the boy might be dead. It felt like I had suddenly found myself in the last stage of Dragon Pox.

He curls into a small ball, pressing his chin into the mattress.

Only now do I notice that he has his mother's nose. The realization is like a punch to my gut. I had kept thinking of him as Potter's brat. I had forgotten he was Lily's too. Now my eyes dart over him, searching for other recognizable features. His ears are hers. So are his hands.

I spin around and leave the Wing in a whirl of black.

As I stride down the darkened corridors I feel a solid ball of guilt making itself at home inside my stomach. I have hated him, scorned him. I treated him despicably. What would Lily say if she knew?

I order the portrait to open, reaching my quarters just before my façade crumbles and I cry.

She would punch me, probably breaking my nose again. She would curse me for treating her son as I have. For bullying him.

Because I did bully him. I place my head in my hands and tremble as I realize that I, myself, am no better than James Potter was. No, I am worse. I picked on an innocent, on one who has no way to fight back. I belittled a boy who had done no wrong.

God, I think I hate myself.

**I AM NOT ABUSED!**

I've just read too many abuse fanfics.


	5. Veritas

**VERITAS**

_Books are my haven. I creep through the library, doing my best to preserve the calmness. The place is tranquil in a harsh opposite from reality._

My escape, my paradise  
My gateway to another world  
My pretty little Edelweiss

In this place reality can shift  
It can destroy and create existence  
From my dreary life I drift

They give me control  
Over whether I read or not  
I can order not cajole

They do not hate  
They do not prejudge  
They do not mutate

They never change  
There is no spontaneous violence  
They are not deranged

They talk and advise  
With knowledge and uncommon sense  
I listen for they are wise

I can learn  
For no-one can command my mind  
That is mine to govern

While my body  
Can be beaten like a baseball  
I am not that shoddy

My being is my own  
Not a pawn of anyone else  
My own alone

They talk about horizons  
I have none for horizons are constraints  
I expand my passions

For there is naught  
A book can do to hurt me  
I remain uncaught

_I am mine and mine alone. Mine. Mine Mine. Me. Me. Me. Nobody else can control me._

I can learn  
For no-one can command my mind  
That is mine to govern

While my body  
Can be beaten like a baseball  
I am not that shoddy

My being is my own  
Not a pawn of anyone else  
My own alone

_I have come to the soul of the problem. Elation spirals over me like a desert wind. I am in control again. I know who I am. I am me. Sometimes I want to do amazingly stupid Gryffindor things. Often I plan as a Slytherin. _

I serve myself  
And no-one else

_Me, myself and I. That is an old saying, for people who never want to be alone. But there is more than three of me. There is a side to me that wants to please everyone, to sacrifice myself. There is a side that is loyal only to my friends. There is a side that wishes to forgive Voldemort. There is a side that wishes for revenge against those who hurt me. There is a side that wants the world to burn. There is a side who does not wish for war but peace. There is a side that cares only for myself.  
There are many more._

_Yet somehow they all work together to create me. I am not simple, though parts of me am. I am not a single string coloured red, yellow, purple, pink, blue, gold, silver, green, bronze, ivory, grey, orange or black. I am an artwork woven from every colour on the rainbow and beyond, as well as many that do not exist in reality._

_Mainly, though, I exist in two parts; one loyal to all, the other to me alone. In the past two years, the latter has dominated. Mayhaps I am the only one who can control me. I was the one in control. Yet I was also shoved aside in favour of myself. The tapestry of my character had turned on itself, turning to bright Gryffindor Hufflepuff hues. Yet a fire cannot blaze long without air or fuel. Should I stay dressed in reds and yellows I shall soon burn out._

_I refuse to burn out._

_I trace the thread of my life back to the last time I was equal._

o~O~o

_For once, all my various facets have agreed to one emotion- shock. I was skeptical when first the Giant claimed I was special, curious when he tricked the motor. Now I am dumbstruck as I cautiously make my way down the aisle. I find myself waiting for a shout of 'April Fool!' or for a camera man and reporter to approach me for reactions to their staged performance. I am agape as I watch an urchin with body twisted in an impossible way greet a women so deformed she would not consent to appear on screen. If this is for a movie, I plan to take the producer to court for Crimes Against Humanity. _

_As I gape at my surroundings the Giant- no doubt the result of an illegal biological experiment- greets the barkeep._

"Howdy do, Tom?"  
"No Worse than yerself. The usual."  
"'Fraid not. 'M on Hogwarts buzniss. 'Mportant buzniss."

_He claps a hand to my shoulder. I am acutely aware of the multitude of eyes on my back._

"Can't be. Melissa will never believe me."  
"It is, Doris my old friend."  
"Potter? Here? Is the old goat insane?"  
"You'd think there'd be a little more security than that blundering oaf."  
"How much fatter do ya think my purse'll be if I tell Mr. Malfoy?"  
"Depends how soon you get there. Half the Dark is headed to the fire."  
"The other half is seeing how soon they can poison him, no doubt."

_I do not like feeling the victim, but am accustomed. I start wishing to be invisible, then stop. The crowd will be aghast if I pull my disappearing act. Before I can decide, I am shoved towards the swarming sheep. I am passed from hand to hand, feet barely touching the ground and uncomfortable at how close to molestation the Crazies come to. There is an assortment of people rushing to touch me. I wonder whether I will be worn smooth by their strokes like what happens to religious idols. _

_Then another comes up to me, his eyes shifting warily. As soon as he touches me, I start to scream mentally._

I remember a foreign _thing_ trying to control me. But no-one other than me may control me. It comes harshly, dominating my senses, _wanting_ to _own_ me. Gryffindor Hufflepuff wants to stand aside and let it have victory. Smart Slytherin Ravenclaw abandons Gryffindor Hufflepuff to wrap around the _thing_. It simply slides down Slytherin Ravenclaw, towards where Gryffindor Hufflepuff is holding the reins. Instead of allowing it to advance towards the submissive duo, Slytherin Ravenclaw cuts their connection.

Over the years, the _thing_ tries to absorb Slytherin Ravenclaw. Sly Slytherin allows himself to be absorbed enough to gain an imprint of the _thing's_ knowledge, before knowing Ravenclaw yanks it back. It remains as a prison for the terrified _thing_, unyielding to its frantic attempts at escape.

Suddenly, there is a _tug_ from outside, pulling on _me_. On the _essence of me_. Desperate, Slytherin Ravenclaw throws the _thing_ to intercept the _tug_, hoping that they will hinder each other instead of joining forces to destroy _me_. Overjoyed, Slytherin watches as his Gryffindoresque leap of faith bears fruit.

o~O~o

I am whole now.  
United.

Gryffindor Hufflepuff sheepishly admits that Slytherin Ravenclaw has a point. Slytherin abstains from forgiving them, demanding a greater voice and other rewards. Weary with the ongoing argument, _I_ demand that they concede and once more join forces. With their acquiescence, I once more begin to re-weave the tapestry of my character.

It has changed.

Salazer Slytherin  
I watch my true heir worriedly. He is breathing, he is alive. While he may be in a coma currently, Slytherins as a breed are too death-defyingly stubborn to stay with Morpheus for long. Though He may tempt them, Snakes were true only to themselves.

Rowena would laugh at me had she heard that last thought. I could not even protest at her humor, standing as I am fearful for one I know will be alright.

He must be. He is the last chance for my House, my Name, my Honour to be restored. No other but the false heir can speak to me and learn my tale. The false heir shut his eyes and closed his ears. This one will not make the same mistake.

I will not allow it.

Despite myself, I am concerned as he jackknifes upright. Then his eyes snap open, and my doubts are reassured. This one will be fine.

His face for a moment is devoid of a mask and I see the calculating set to his features. I see the staunch, certain jaw that is characteristic of my line. I have never before seen him wear it. The look suits him. I am proud of my descendant; at last I meet one worthy of my name. He bears the impression of his fiery squib-born mother.

He will take the school by storm and lead a revolution.

The damned Headmaster approaches him, a kindly mask firm in place. "My dear boy, you gave us quite the fright! Are you alright?"

I want to kill him, but bearing in mind the fact that I am a portrait, find myself unable. Instead, I listen to my heir's answer, a warm haze of relief overcoming me as he replies "I'm fine, thank you Headmaster. Just a little stiff."

Bile rises in my throat at Dumbledore's genial appearance. He thinks so little of my lineage that he allows his true uncaring feelings to darken the mask. I see my Childe tighten his mask, his obvious recognition of the Pecksniffian in front of him the only reason I do not outright vomit.

Dumbledore strengthens the spell on his eyes. "Is there anything I can do for you, dear boy? Your friends were most worried."

I can tell from how my Scion narrows his eyes that he recognized the way Dumbledore excluded himself from the statement. The smile my Snake gives is a mirror of his Headmaster's; wide, beaming and utterly fake.

"Actually, Headmaster, I was wondering whether I could be resorted? I am not same person I was when I first came to Hogwarts."

_Fini_

Anyone who wishes to may use this story as background for one of theirs.

Yes, it is finished. I stopped caring about it a while back, but pushed myself to complete it for my readers. When I posted the first chapter I had no plans to continue it, only the fact that the only other option was deleting or abandoning it made me write this much. The previous chapters are edited to echo the abrupt ending.


End file.
